paragraph #3143

(note the utopian banana men and how succulently they suck...?)

The tether in the yellow bell grows and glows, the weepy urn-ash vixens fight for the clogged moneyed jugular. We can never tell you secrets; placation comes too late in watery minnowy ponds, with the yuppy igloo centaurs and the prefab oligarch factories; hey why don’t you whack moles into dirt and stop clutching at my fronds... I am taller than sequoias but you’re thin as a reed - you frantic kleptomanic bean. Utopian banana men suck succulently, thrashing with finesse – it’s the hopping never stops; the 'bipping' leads to bops, two hundred centipedes caress my feet; luckily I have pity and don’t squash. And my friend, Frigid Filipino Ethel has a colourful coal mine canary - underground she sings with it - but its wings were clipped by a big brown Doberman, so she must use a walking stick.

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